“I am drowning.” Finally she could breathe again, though her heart pounded hard enough to burst right through her chest.
“What the devil happened?” Shay gave her a warning glare as he returned the water to her. “Sips.”
Obediently she took a dainty swallow. “I don’t know. It just occurred to me that half of London was watching me up there, waiting for me to do something…un-English.”
“Did Melbourne say something to you?” he asked very quietly, his expression serious.
“Heavens, no,” she returned hastily. He hadn’t, really. “He hardly needed to. All I required was my eyes and ears.”
“Well, considering that you are English, I don’t see how you could do anything un-English.”
“Oh, please. I could take my shoes off, or say something unflattering about snake charmers to those old peers who spent ten minutes earlier talking to my bosom.” She looked up into his amused gaze. “How do you do it? Be at ease while the world watches your every move?”
Shay shrugged. “Mostly they’re watching Melbourne’s every move, but I suppose the trick is to think of something else.”
“Something else? Since you won’t negotiate, I don’t know what I’m supposed to think ab—”
“Negotiate?” he repeated in a soft voice.
Her gaze lowered to his mouth. “Yes. You know, numbers, prices…”
“Quantities of goods or services…”
“Yes,” she whispered. “A battle of wits and n—”
He leaned in and kissed her. He moved slowly, molding his mouth against hers, stealing her breath again and sending her heart racing to an entirely different rhythm than fear. The water glass slipped from her fingers to the thankfully carpeted floor as she slid her arms around his shoulders.
Charlemagne pressed her back against the wall, holding her body against his lean, muscled one. She could taste his hunger, feel his interest, and both aroused her.
“I like negotiating with you,” he murmured, kissing her again.
“You are a challenging opponent,” she returned, her mouth muffled against his.
“Mm.” Finally he lifted his face from hers. “Think about that,” he said softly.
Well, how could she possibly think of anything else, now? Heavens, she’d nearly melted. Still, this was a part of his negotiation, and she’d best remember that. “That might distract me for a minute or two,” she managed a little shakily, “but what shall I do after that?”
He ran his thumb along her lip. “Think about two thousand eight hundred pounds,” he suggested, “and your subsequent reasonable acceptance of said offer.”
Her breath caught. “I wouldn’t call accepting that to be reasonable.”
The corners of his mouth curved upward. “Ready to go back to our seats?”
She felt far from ready, but not for any of the reasons that had sent her fleeing before. Kisses and silks and gold coins all tangled in her mind. He’d certainly managed to distract her, all right. Sarala smiled back at him. “Thank you. You may lead on, Prospero.”
As he pulled the curtain open and helped her back to her seat, his mouth brushed her ear once more. “Thank you for casting me as the hero,” he whispered, releasing her to her chair.
The hero? She wasn’t entirely certain what his ultimate role would be, but she’d never enjoyed a business rivalry so much in her life.
Chapter 10
Charlemagne made his way downstairs to the smell of fresh-baked bread. Stanton had informed him that Sebastian was still in the breakfast room—Parliament had an afternoon session today, and with a half-dozen meetings following that, his brother had no doubt taken the rare opportunity to rise late.
“Good morning,” he said, strolling in to select his breakfast from the sideboard.
“Good morning,” his brother returned. “Have you seen Peep yet?”
“I heard her singing, which I assume means she’s awake.”
Sebastian sighed. “Yes, she informed me yesterday that she means to take the stage when she’s old enough.”
Charlemagne grinned. “Last week she favored piracy. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
“Ah, but it’s my job to worry.”
“You need to think more like Prospero.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem.
‘These our actors
(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself
Yes, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a track behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.’”
The duke eyed him. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Please don’t ever try to depress me.”
Laughing, Charlemagne took the seat opposite his brother. “It’s a good play. You’re actually rather Prospero-like yourself, don’t you think? Magically manipulating events to follow the track you think they should?”
“Yes, but that’s supposed to be a secret.” The duke unfolded the morning edition of the Times and nudged it at Charlemagne. “Have you seen this?”
“What?” Taking a bite of toast, Charlemagne turned the paper to face him—and nearly choked.
“You didn’t know, then.”
“How was I supposed to know?” He read the headline and the caption beneath it again, thinking he must have misinterpreted. “‘Ship’s Captain Missing; Foul Play Is Feared in the Disappearance of Peter Blink, Captain of the Wayward.’ Christ.”
“He was the one from whom you purchased the silk, wasn’t he?”
He would have bought the silks from Blink, if Sarala hadn’t beaten him to it. But very few people knew he’d been outmaneuvered. Like Melbourne, most thought him the owner of the shipment. Good God. Ice crept into his chest. It couldn’t be connected to the silks. He was overreacting. “Yes, that was Blink,” he answered when he realized Melbourne was still gazing at him.
“Could he have gone on a drunk? He is a sea captain. It’s not all that uncommon for his ilk, I believe.”
“I suppose so,” Charlemagne returned, glancing through the article. “Does this say who reported him missing?”
“His first mate. Apparently they were supposed to set sail for the Mediterranean on Monday, but he never appeared to supervise the resupply or pay the port fees.”
That wasn’t like Blink. The man had a definite eye for opportunity, but he wasn’t careless. “I wonder,” he said slowly.
“Wonder what?”
“Well, it’s just so odd, and it puts me in mind of the attempted break-in at my house, and that feeling I had the other night, about—”
“Good morning, Papa.” Penelope pranced into the breakfast room. “Good morning, Uncle Shay. What feeling did you have?”
Charlemagne hid a scowl as he leaned over to kiss his niece’s cheek. “A feeling of cold wet trickling down my back because I got caught in the rain.”
She made a face. “Yuck. It’s not going to rain today, is it?”
“I don’t believe so, Peep. Why do you ask?”
She filled a plate to overflowing with grapes and set it down beside her father. “Because I am going to give you another chance to take me to the museum today. Amelia Harper said that one of the mummies looked at her. I think she’s silly, but I need evidence.”
He needed to do a little investigating, himself—mainly to make certain that nothing…odd had occurred around Sarala. Thin as the connection between a missing sea captain and an attack on the house of his last known client might be, he’d made more than one deal based on even thinner leads. That silk was supposed to be his, and if any of this was connected, he wanted to know about it. “May I take you this afternoon?” he suggested.
“Yes, yo
u may.”
Charlemagne took a few quick bites of toast and then pushed away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few errands to run.”
“A moment, Shay.” Sebastian stood, as well. “Penelope, don’t let Stanton clear my plate.”
“I’ll guard it, Papa.”
Charlemagne followed his brother into the morning room next door. “What is it?”
“Your feeling. You think this Blink’s disappearance is connected to your silk purchase, don’t you?”
“I’m not certain. I’ve just had an odd feeling about this entire business.” A feeling that had become irrevocably wrapped into visions of India and a black-haired princess with moss green eyes.
“Then you need to sell them. Now.”
Technically, he was still trying to obtain them in the first place. “No one’s ever intimidated me into anything,” he returned. “And at the moment all I have is a very loose chain of coincidence.”
“I don’t like it, Shay.”
“I don’t, either.” If this had somehow put Sarala in danger…He needed to find out. “I’ll let you know.”
“Make it fast.”
“Don’t worry, Seb. It’s probably nothing.”
His brother nodded. “It’s the ‘probably’ part that has me concerned.”
Shay had Jaunty saddled and then rode to Carlisle House. A note would probably have worked just as well, and alarmed her less, but damn it, he wanted to see her. There. Might as well admit it, because denial certainly wasn’t helping anything.
When he arrived, though, the butler refused him admittance. “Apologies, my lord,” the fellow said stiffly, “but no one’s to home.”
“Where might I find Lady Sarala, then?”
“Lady Sarah has gone to breakfast with Lady Hanover and several others.”
The degree of disappointment he felt at missing her startled Shay. For something he hadn’t even planned, its importance seemed both ridiculous and very…illogical. He cleared his throat as the butler continued to gaze at him. “Perhaps you might answer a question for me, then,” he went on.
“I shall endeavor.”
“Has anything…odd occurred here over the past few days?”
“Odd, my lord?”
“Broken windows, strangers calling, anything like that?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Shay nodded, backing away from the door. “Very good, then. There’s, ah, been a rash of burglaries. I just wanted to be sure that the Carlisles remained secure.”
“I’d like to see someone try to break in here, m’lord,” the butler returned, his Cockney accent creeping into his speech. “I’d show ’em what for.”
“Glad to hear it. Thank you.”
That was something, he supposed, though it didn’t say much for him if he was now racing about Town in a panic because a sea captain had gone on a drunk somewhere. Yes, he’d clearly lost his mind.
When he returned to Griffin House, Sebastian had left for Parliament, and Peep waited on the bottommost stair step for him. “I’m going to make some drawings,” she announced, hefting a large sketch pad. “I borrowed this from Aunt Caroline.”
“That’s a good idea, Peep,” he returned, ushering her out the front door as Tollins brought the curricle around. “You can document the position of the suspicious mummy.”
“Exactly. Amelia Harper is feather-headed, and I am going to prove it. Mummies can’t move.”
Inside the British Museum, Penelope led the way directly to the Egyptian rooms, Charlemagne in her wake. There were several new pieces to the exhibit, and he was rather grateful for the distraction.
“Uncle Shay, may I borrow your walking cane?”
He started to hand it over, then stopped. “Why, may I ask?”
“I would like to poke that mummy.”
Charlemagne swallowed his grin as best he could. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, Peep. If it helps, I can give you my personal assurance that the fellow is deceased.”
“I know that,” she said impatiently, circling the sarcophagus. “I want to see if his head moves.”
At that moment one of the curators strolled into the room. “Ah. Perhaps we might ask an authority,” Charlemagne suggested.
Peep held up her small hand to stop him from moving. “I will do it. This is my investigation. You wait here.”
“Of course, my lady.”
The museum employee was clearly thrilled to be of service to a member of the Griffin family, even a seven-yearold one.
Once Peep and the curator were deep in conversation, Charlemagne smiled again and strolled over to read the wall plaque halfway down the length of the room. Someone had collected part of the inner wall of a tomb and turned it over to the museum. For a long moment he stood looking at the yellow and red and black hieroglyphics. “Amazing,” he muttered, leaning in to look more closely. He had a tablet of similar writing himself, displayed in the drawing room of Gaston House. The colors of this one, though, were exceptional.
A shadow slipped across the edge of his vision and behind a huge granite bust of Amenhotep. Charlemagne took a quick glance to see Peep leaning over the rim of the sarcophagus while the curator pointed something out to her. The museum wasn’t terribly crowded, but there were a handful of other people roaming the catacomb of rooms and hallways. This, though, felt different.
Obviously he couldn’t leave Penelope behind in the room, and he didn’t want to begin some sort of crazed shadow chase through the museum with her in tow. Taking a breath and testing his grip on his cane, he turned and made directly for the statue.
Nothing. Slowly he circled its considerable girth, just to be certain. Only a dozen other visitors were in the room, none of them viewing the likeness of Amenhotep with him at the moment. “Damnation,” he muttered. “You’re going mad, you know.”
He turned back—and then he saw the shadow.
The man stood at the far end of the hall, watching him. Medium height, lean build, and long black hair braided into a tail over one shoulder, he was as clearly a warrior as if he wore armor rather than a loose shirt and pants, clearly designed with ease of movement in mind. The fellow was foreign—Chinese, unless Charlemagne was greatly mistaken—and after a long moment spent looking at each other the man bowed and then vanished around the corner.
Charlemagne’s first instinct was to go after him. In the next second he realized that it was probably a trap, either for him or to separate him from his niece. Which meant first that he couldn’t follow, and second that he and Peep needed to get out of the museum before anyone attempted something more serious than lures.
“Peep,” he called, making a show of pulling out his pocket watch.
“I haven’t drawn anything yet,” she returned from her seat on the bench against the wall.
He returned to her side. “Did the curator explain the lack of movement of mummies to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, he did. I would still like some illustrations, though, so I can show them to Amelia Harper when I prove that she’s dim-witted.”
“I would suggest a bit more diplomacy than that,” he said, taking her sketch pad under his arm and her hand in his. “I have a very well-illustrated book on mummies. You may have it, if you wish.”
“May I cut out the pictures?”
Inwardly gritting his teeth, he nodded. “It’s for a good cause.” And it would get her out of what had become a considerably less friendly place.
On the way back to Griffin House he took the time to run through several possible scenarios. A Chinese warrior and Blink’s disappearance—if they were related, then one more piece instantly fell into that equation: the Chinese silks. And the Chinaman had apparently followed him, and intentionally. That meant that at least someone thought he had the silks, which was good. It meant Sarala was safe and out of this particular arithmetic problem, at least for now. Apparently he wasn’t the only one to think that women didn’t engage in business.
One thi
ng was for certain, though; the next time he saw a shadow, he was going to hunt it down.
“You look like you’ve been dragged behind a mule,” Sebastian said calmly the next day, handing his hat to Stanton as Charlemagne exited the library.
“I’ve been doing some research,” Shay said, blowing out his breath. “What time is it?”
“Half past noon,” the duke answered without checking. “Friday, in case you’ve lost track of that, as well.”
He felt like he had. Since the return from the museum yesterday he’d been going nonstop—tracking down everyone he knew who’d done business with Blink, reading up on his histories of China, pulling in favors from the government to learn which foreign diplomats were currently in London, and trying to determine once and for all whether any of this nonsense was connected or not.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t home last evening,” Sebastian continued, motioning him toward the stairs. “What did you find out about Blink?”
“Not much.” Shay stopped at the foot of the stairs,declining to follow his brother up. “I need to go see someone.” He hadn’t seen Sarala in longer than he’d seen Sebastian, and she needed to know that something odd seemed to be going on. Aside from that, he hadn’t had a good argument in nearly two days. He missed her.
“Anyone in particular?”
“No.”
“You’re courting her, aren’t you?”
Charlemagne nearly fell on his face. “What? Who?” he sputtered, facing Melbourne.
“Don’t dissemble, Shay. You think we don’t all know? Why do you think we’ve been making the effort of becoming acquainted with the family?”
“What?” Abruptly several things made sense. God, he’d been an idiot. A distracted, soft-headed, idiot. “For God’s sake, she—she’s not—I’m not—” He drew a breath, trying to chart a course clear of this mess without looking like a complete muggins. “Sarala…she bought the silks from Blink, right out from under me. I’ve been trying to acquire them back from her.”
Melbourne opened and closed his mouth several times. Charlemagne realized he’d never really seen his brother truly surprised—until this moment. “You’re doing business with her,” Sebastian said flatly.
Something Sinful Page 14
